


Just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark

by Mekachu04



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 'you go to fast for me', Aziraphale hasn't made an effort, Clothed Sex, Consent is Sexy, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dry Humping, Emotional Sex, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Post-Apocalypse, aziraphale feels love, emotional overstimulation, first time they say i love you, hand holding, wings upon orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 00:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mekachu04/pseuds/Mekachu04
Summary: Angels can feel love. Crowley never appreciated that tidbit until now.  Art by Wargoddess9





	Just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Death Cab For Cutie - I'll Follow You Into The Dark  
> this is the ace-iest porn ever. you've been warned.

Aziraphale feels love. He’s an angel, and it is within his nature to do so. 

So it is equitable, that throughout their very long friendship, he can feel very acutely when Crowley's amusement in him turns to endearment; feels it quite strongly when that fondness turns to love for him.

He just doesn’t know if _Crowley_ knows what he's feeling is actually love, so he doesn't say anything. Demons weren’t exactly known for _love_ , and Crowley already doesn't care to be told when he’s been kind; when he's been nice. Aziraphale tells him in small ways anyway. The things he knows Crowley is ready to hear. That Crowley is dear to him.

And so, it’s during the Blitz, when they're standing alone in the rubble of what was once consecrated ground, that he realises at last that Crowley does know he loves Aziraphale. It's the most powerful fervor he’s felt on Earth, and yet unmistakable for anything else. While his own heart flutters as Crowley retrieves his books, it’s when their hands touch that his heart _stops_ , because Crowley’s heart does the same. The love pouring off his soft “Lift home?” quiets the world, and for a moment, there is nothing else but them two in all of Earth and the Heavens above (and possibly Hell below).

Distance and time doesn't simmer it either; as Aziraphale finds himself gifting his friend the last thing in creation that he wants anywhere near the demon. The love from Crowley as they sit together in the Bentley has Aziraphale nearly beside himself with the elation radiating off of his hereditary enemy. It hits him like a speeding lorry, and he has to remind his heart to start beating again, swallowing thickly as their hands touch when he passes over the thermos. Any other time he'd be shaking, but even though he _knows_ the lid is secure, his hands are steady just in case. However, he can still see the fine tremors in Crowley's hands, and he wants to stop fighting through the haze Crowley's putting him under and instead gather the demon in his arms; to cast the thermos away and never let his friend go. 

Almighty help him, he wants to pull Crowley in tight, to drown himself in Crowley's quintessence, and he knows he'll never let go again if he does. And Crowley, such a dear, who loves him so soundly and yet has no idea of Aziraphale’s vacillations right now: that if he asked, Aziraphale will be very hard pressed to not let go of Heaven for him. He doesn't know which one terrifies him more. Turning away from Heaven, or letting Crowley drive away with holy water. 

“You go to fast for me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale stands in the street positively trembling in trepidation as Crowley drives away. He's haloed by the neon lights, before being plunged into darkness as they flicker off, hoping that he hasn’t made several terrible mistakes that day.

* * *

  
“When have I _ever_ called something spooky?” Crowley asks, somewhat out of the blue, as he pulls up to the bookshop one afternoon. They’d just gone to lunch, and during the drive back he had begun mulling over an otherwise long forgotten moment.

“I’m sorry dear, what?”

“Back,” he waves his hand idly, “With the whole antichrist thing. You kept going on about love and such, and then you implied I called things ‘spooky.’”

The look Aziraphale gives him is delicate and tender, and the part that’s still proud of being a demon wants to hiss and seethe at the soft look. But, he’s getting better at basking under the angel’s smile; He could almost preen. Except when that look also has a hint of smug, and he can’t have that, “Knock it off.”

Aziraphale exits the Bentley, Crowley a half-step behind. They both stand on opposite sides of the car, Crowley leaning against the top of the frame, still looking like he’s waiting for Aziraphale's response.

“Stonehenge. You dragged me all the way over from Greece when you first heard of it. It was foggy that morning and everything!”

“ _You_ said spooky, _I_ said it was too per-”

“You _agreed_ it was spooky.” 

Crowley blanches; at best he said it was creepy how _dead-on_ the humans had built the thing. Aziraphale, however, puffs up in that pleased way of his when he thinks he’s won an argument, “Tea, dear boy?”

He pushes off the car, rocking back on his heels slightly and patting the frame, before making his way to Aziraphale’s side so they can cross the street together. “I’ve never once said spooky,” he mutters mulishly, “I rather like spooky.”

The shop stays closed, much to no one’s surprise, and Aziraphale busies himself with a kettle in the back room. Crowley, in turn, sits himself on the tiny counter beside him, “What did it feel like, for you?”

“Stonehenge? It was. Very charged. Like the air was alive-”

“No,” Crowley makes a face, shakes his head, “Tadfield.”

“Tadfield?”

“You kept going on about love. I-” he flounders for a moment, now that Aziraphale has solemnly turned to face him fully, “I didn’t...”

“ ‘You didn’t’ most of the times I say things like that,” Aziraphale says finally, not unkindly, but he turns away nonetheless, miracling the water hot as to busy himself with something else. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s fingers fidgeting on the kettle handle, knowing he’s made the angel anxious. He reaches over and holds the kettle still.

“So tell me now.”

Aziraphale gives him a long look, carefully blank, but Crowley has known him long enough to see the angel’s mind whirling, putting his thoughts together before he speaks. “Tadfield was so very lovely.” He says finally, loafing in place, tension ceding from his shoulders. “Adam. It was his love I was feeling. It was wonderful.”

He moves Crowley’s hand from the kettle, holding it in his own like it was as precious to him as his far off reminiscences, “It felt like ... like ‘the light on your door to show you’re home.’”

Crowley looks at him in wonder, “Velvet Underground, Angel? Really?”

There’s a shy, coy look on the angel’s face then. “I feel love from others all the time, but usually it's subdued. A nice warm hug, but nothing so powerful. Rarely anything to get _worked up_ over,” Aziraphale dithers about, releasing Crowley’s hand to reach onto the shelf sitting eye level with Crowley, pulling down a mug for each of them, “But Adam had so much power, still does in that respect, to love so graciously like that. I would have lost myself in it, if there wasn't such dire circumstances concerning the whole ordeal” His voice has a pitched dreamy quality to it that had Crowley raising an eyebrow.

“You feel love from people?” His voice is faint as he leans back to rest his weight on his left hand, slightly behind him. He tries to force a casual air about him, wondering how he missed this after a half dozen millennia. It’s a painful realisation that he _should have_ ; he could recall Aziraphale trying to tell him something similar before.

“Of course I do. From people, from _humans_ , some animals, from all celestials really. Though I do imagine it was Adam’s original parentage that allows him to project so indomitably.”

“You’re talking about his unHoly not-anymoreFather?” Crowley interjects. Aziraphale smiles sweetly as he pours the heated water over the leaves residing now within the tea cups.

“I could even feel it from him, did you know?” 

“From Satan?”

“Hmm. Maybe fondness rather than true storge, but still he was so very enamoured by Adam when he called him rebellious.” His eyes twinkle, and he leans into Crowley's space slightly like he’s sharing a great secret, a private joke, “but I'm pretty sure that’s nothing we should be sharing, for our own safety.”

Crowley chuckles lightly, shaking his head in casual denial, “Demon’s _don’t_ love, angel”

“Maybe, but fallen angels clearly do. I know what I felt.” He does that pleased little wiggle of his, checking on how the tea steeping was coming along, “Your dark lord was upset, no doubt. But he did love his son. Shouldn’t have waited so long to say something in the first place, I should think.”

“Probably best for us he didn’t.” He looks at Aziraphale fondly. Not. Not just fondly, he realised with a start, but with love and fidelity. And apparently Aziraphale can feel stuff like that. Not just can feel it, Crowley appreciates as he watches his friend, but honestly seems to be basking in it. 

Struck by inspiration, Crowley watches Aziraphale's face closely, thinks about just _how much_ he loves this stupid angel, and watches in complete fascination as Aziraphale's lashes flutter, hands stuttering against their mugs on the counter next to him.

"Hey," he says softly, voice husky, "Angel." He pulls on the elbow of Aziraphale's coat, and when Aziraphale looks up at him Crowley's taken back to see Aziraphale's pupils blown. His dick twitches at the sight. _Holy fuck._

"Yes darling?” Aziraphale's voice is pitched just a little lower than normal, dry and airy, as a soft tremor wracks the angel beside him. Impulsively, Aziraphale places his palm on Crowley's knee; his hand is rock-steady, with just a hint of pressure as Aziraphale's thumb rubs a soft little circle where it rests against his leg.

With his hand still on Aziraphale's elbow, and his breath catching in his chest, Crowley forces himself not to look down at the heated touch, afraid he might only be imagining it. Aziraphale hasn’t turned away either, still looking at him so open and expectantly. _He’s scared,_ Crowley understood with a startle.

He twists where he’s still sitting mostly on the ledge, right foot on the floor to balance him as his hand smooths down Aziraphale's forearm to take Aziraphale’s fingers in his when his movement would have otherwise caused them to lose contact. Crowley shifts his weight off his left hand, and uses that to gently cup Aziraphale's face; urging him closer as Crowley leans forward to kiss his angel for the first time 

The fingers of Aziraphale's left hand ghost over the back of Crowley’s hand on his cheek, before he’s streaming through Crowley's short hair to hold him by the base of his neck, rendering the space between them void as he s _urges_ immanently into Crowley to kiss back fiercely. He squeezes Crowley’s hand with his right once more before letting it go to bury both in Crowley’s shorn locks.

He has Aziraphale trapped between his knees, hands curling in short hair; not enough to pull, never enough to hurt, but clinging impetuously at the strands. Their kisses are deep but short, like they’re both afraid it will end too soon and want to get as many in as they can before the fever dream is over. Aziraphale’s hands toy with his scarf, curl around the illicit chain underneath, the silver metal warm and wonderful under the angel’s grasp.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s exhalation against his parted lips is as pious as a prayer, angelic hands brushing through his hair, caressing down along his neck. Each time he breathes, Crowley’s name becomes a refrain lost between their lips, interspersed by a short, wonderful litany of ‘my’ and ’dearest’ and ‘please.’ 

Crowley only melts under the verbal onslaught, a soft whine of intermingled protest and acceptance in each sound, until Aziraphale’s out-pour of devotions start to wane. Crowley forces a steadying breath, refusing to let any apprehension take root. He pulls away enough to look Aziraphale square in the eye, only to find him just _radiating_ back at him.

“I _love you_ , Crowley.”

Crowley flings himself off the counter, washing over Aziraphale. Once both feet are firm on the floor, he’s holding the angel’s face flush with own; hungry, desperate kisses raining along Aziraphale’s lips, his nose, down his cheek. 

"Tell me to stop," he asks, pressing close, nuzzling against the angel's jaw, feeling the pulse jump under his lips. Aziraphale says nothing in return, just makes a soft little sound, hands tightening in Crowley’s jacket.

Aziraphale’s eyes are lidded, watching Crowley pull away just a bit; anxious but so very, very warm right now. Like he wants to crawl inside Crowley's skin, and _that_ sends sparks racing through Crowley's veins; his gut tightening with its own wants.

Aziraphale's ugly couch has never looked so inviting as it does right now. Crowley slowly herds them closer with kisses and murmurs, hands reaching up to cup Aziraphale's face and essence; fingers lost in the soft, short strands. Every time his own heart quickens, he can see the instant Aziraphale feels it, the angel’s chest shuddering as he loses his breath. He can feel the heart working overtime and fluttering under the pads of his thumbs where they rest between Aziraphale’s shirt collar and the warm, soft line of neck below.

Crowley’s very close to stepping over that too fast line, and he knows it. He knows it, and Aziraphale knows it, and the angel isn't making one iota of effort to rein him back; shaking so hard against him already. Crowley has a horrid thought that he might have moved too fast already.

It almost hurts to step back, to corral his emotions back in, but once he calms his own heart, he sees Aziraphale's eyes clear a little, though they don't lose any of the ferocity in them, and that realisation sends a pulse back through him that mirrors instantly in the angel.

In the most arduous action he feels he's ever taken, he pushes his hands under the lapels of Aziraphale's coat, running along the shirt to rest between the fabrics adorning the angel’s shoulders. Aziraphale lets him, looking back in adoration; but the demon in Crowley sees the smallest hint of _else_ and he's very slow in working the overcoat over tense shoulders.

Aziraphale looks the tiniest bit uncertain, but doesn't move to stop him; only looks back with love and trust, and Crowley would damn himself all over again if he fucks this up. He has to ignore the quickening of his own pulse, has to push his love for the stupid angel down before he catches them both in an endless chorus of each other’s echoes as he eases the coat from Aziraphale.

He's seen the angel in all manner of states of dress before; he's even helped get this uppity angel dressed when the celestial being refused to miracle something with an exuberant amount of buttons. He's never actively contributed in taking anything off his friend though.

With all the veneration he would show for Aziraphale, he takes the coat in hand, and carefully hangs it across the back of one of the sitting chairs nearby.

They're both trembling slightly when he turns back, and before either can worry about second guessing themselves, he closes the gap, kissing Aziraphale softly across the lips. It’s positively chaste for a demon, letting his emotions loose for a moment until that trembling has turned to a soft sound of want from them both, and he's very carefully freeing the clasp of Aziraphale's pocket watch from where it's pressed between them.

He's setting it down on the end table when he feels Aziraphale's hands cup his chin; he leans in for another kiss. Aziraphale kisses back, still so painfully chaste, but his hands continue up until they rest on the arms of his tinted-glasses. His voice is timid, just shy of begging. “Please?” 

He supposes it's only fair, he's started to strip away Aziraphale's layers of armour; should he not too be laid bare before him? The frames are held carefully in Aziraphale's hands. Crowley ducks away, letting them be pulled free, locking an unfiltered gaze with Aziraphale's bright blue eyes.

The angel doesn't look away, smiling so bright Crowley almost wants the glasses back to hide behind. Because how dare the angel brighten so much just by looking at him? Then Aziraphale is placing the glasses just as reverently down next to his discarded pocket watch.

Crowley's gaze follows the line of Aziraphale's cheeks and jaw as he looks away, until he's reaching up to caress the bow tie solemnly.

He unties it carefully, with all the precision he knows Aziraphale still uses to tie it in the first place. Then the slim fabric is left draped on either side of the angel’s neck and Crowley's fingers are toying with the buttons of the shirt before he even gives it a thought, carefully exposing the soft throat to the air. He's sliding the tie free from the collar of Aziraphale's soft blue shirt as he's moving forward, kissing the angel’s neck properly for the first time.

He's forgotten to keep it slow, lust and love burning hot under his skin, and he's not subtle about it. He's pressed flush against the angel, groin begging for friction where their hips meet.

The tie is placed on the table with less grace then the items before it, and he's pushing the angel and himself against the couch’s edge. Aziraphale makes a weak little sound as he's torn between standing firm where they're pressed close, or allowing Crowley's weight to topple them into the cushions.

As Crowley works his mouth and tongue against Aziraphale's throat, down to the hint of his collar bone, his hands fumble down the angel's arms, coming to rest against the cuff closing around sturdy wrists. He fantasises about rolling up Aziraphale's sleeves. Crowley misses the old days when he could look over those glorious forearms whenever he wanted. Before fashion hid them away, before Aziraphale started using layers like armour and hid himself away.

He’s got a knee pressed against the couch, and it doesn't take much encouragement to shepherd the angel back, braced in a way to guide Aziraphale down gently, to steer their fall into a soft tangle on plush cushions. It's an easy move then, to pin Aziraphale down on the settee, to crawl into the lap of one of the hosts of Heaven, and when Crowley looks up to check in, he sees the angel’s gaze has gone faint. His breath has gone heavy and wicked.

_“You go too fast for me Crowley.”_

He'd wanted to loathe the angel for that. Words that creep and hammer into him with just as much force today as they day they’d first been spoken. He’d driven away afterwards, unwilling to admit the other had broken his heart. All the while, every fiber of him had been gushing with love, and adoration, and regret, and fear. All in regards to his angel.

He eases off slightly, reining in his passion to a slow simmer, fingers tracing the cuff but making no move to expose anymore of the angel. His kisses soften, no longer as insistent, like he was trying to suck the angelic essence out of his friend. Instead he just hovers, _breathing_ in the smell, instead measuring out the pulse under his lips until it's calmed down into actual individual beats once again.

Rather than moving to press the angel to the back cushions of the couch, Crowley's pulling away, grinning foolishly to himself as the angel repines at him in loss. Aziraphale leans forward unconsciously to chase after Crowley’s retreating frame. Then Aziraphale is back to himself, panting, watching Crowley; lost as the demon crouches on the floor instead. He’s miracled his own shoes away by now, but he gently takes Aziraphale's foot in hand, resting his fingers on the shoe’s harsh edge, fingertips brushing the soft socks separating him from the angel’s ankle.

Aziraphale is looking down at him, utterly dishevelled in a way even Crowley could not of begun to imagine, hair both sweat slicked and standing at impossible angles. He did that. His hands did that. His touch had left Aziraphale short of breath, and his _love_ had the angel’s heart ready to beat right out of his chest.

Crowley left a kiss on the angel’s knee, a quick pressure before he's turning to look down at the thin little laces. Using the act of loosening them to calm his heart as he removes one shoe, then the other, leaning to place them under the chair with Aziraphale's jacket. He's still kneeling when Aziraphale takes his elbow, drawing him back to the space between his legs, initiating the kiss this time, as he mirrors the motions Crowley had gone through earlier to slide the black jacket off. Without bothering to look, Crowley tosses it back over Aziraphale's haphazardly, before reaching back and intertwining their fingers.

 _This_ kiss isn't so innocent; he licks Aziraphale’s lips, begging entrance, as he kneels before the angel, tucked in close between tan-slack thighs. His cock is throbbing in time with his heart, straining and demanding against his own jeans, but his sole focus is in memorising the taste and feel of Aziraphale's mouth under his tongue, in memorising this picture painted before him. The most gorgeous art that he's not sure he could ever explain to anyone not of reptilian background.

Aziraphale had scooted closer to the edge of the couch when he’d taken off Crowley's jacket, so he can now enfold himself around Crowley as they kiss, ankles crossing behind Crowley as they urge them both to quelch the space still daring to linger between them.

The dark little part of him itching to destroy wantonly begs him to ask Aziraphale to make an Effort right now. He wants to undo the angel on every level, wants to break him apart and remake him in his own image.

He wants to make him ever forget he was an angel.

_“You go too fast for me.”_

He won't voice his wishes, at least not this time, even as he rolls his hips into Aziraphale, fingers tightening desperately and he forgets himself for just a moment, flooding Aziraphale in lust.

Aziraphale makes a little cry, fingers clasping nearly painfully back, and even if they don't _need_ to breath, Aziraphale breaks the kiss away to gasp for breath against Crowley’s open lips, shivering.

Crowley watching his friend’s eyes grow distant again, and eases up "Tell me to stop?" he pleads again, an echo from earlier. Aziraphale's chest heaves but he shakes his head in a silent _'Never'_ as he struggles to breathe.

He moves up slowly, one hand releasing Aziraphale's to instead grab one powerful thigh, lifting the angel into his lap as he moves to settle on the couch himself, swathing himself around Aziraphale just long enough for a brief kiss before he's turning them, pressing the angel horizontal across the couch, laying him out underneath him.

"Tell me to slow down," he implores, ghosting a kiss over his beloved’s lips.

Aziraphale laughs; its soundless, airless, but he's coming back around, and his smile is brilliant. "Never again" he vows, his face as bright as the day he promised Crowley the world.

It undoes him to the core, and he pulls their still entwined hands up, kissing the knuckles as he gently rolls his hips again. "Let go, and I'll stop," he promises, not harshly, soothingly, "squeeze and I’ll slow down." He's determined to shush that voice that wants to ruin Aziraphale; Crowley wants the _beau ideal_ , and he's not gonna let the demon inside sabotage his chance at happiness anymore.

Aziraphale's free hand is in his hair, guiding his head forward to kiss him on the lips, a soft noise being ushered between them as he moves to press his thigh against Crowley's still clothed erection.

Crowley takes it as all the permission his needs, devouring the cherubic mouth before him, hand tightening around the thick muscles of Aziraphale's thigh before groping at his ass. He’s grinding himself harshly against the angel, long slow thrusts of denim dragging on cotton. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale flushes under him, "Should I-?" he implores, cutting off himself off with a strangled whimper before taking a gutted breath and trying again, “What do you need me to-?”

“Angel,” Crowley cuts him off now, with a flood of adoration, pace starting to quicken as he rolls his hips, comminuting against the marvellous friction at Aziraphale's magnificent hips. "This is perfect," Crowley whispers into open lips, before nipping them lightly as Aziraphale keens eagerly into him.

His trapped dick is raging in its confinement, each thrust coupled with a heavy heat coiling in inside Crowley as he ravages his way down Aziraphale’s neck once again, soft pressure of teeth against flesh and cloth with the wondrous, tortuous trituration burning though him in raged, savage waves. 

His pace is getting a bit frantic, teeth biting down into Aziraphale's waistcoat at his trapezius, hand tightening to a bruising grip on Aziraphale's leg. Aziraphale's shuddering under him, constant literary of not-quite words filling in the space between each of his own muffled whines. One of Aziraphale's hands have fisted in the back of his shirt, and his other...

_“You go too fast.”_

With a spark of clarity, Crowley can feel the fine bones of his other hand starting to protest, where Aziraphale's grip has tightened to the point of almost pain. With great effort, he unclamps his jaw from where he is nearly tearing into Aziraphale's clothes, and he looks up to Aziraphale's face. The angel's gasping for words still, damp hair plastered to his face, a picture of delicious torment on a face flushed warm. He's not _looking at_ anything though, pupils dilated and staring out into the cosmos. "Angel?"

He kisses the angel's jaw; Aziraphale moans at the sound of his voice, but it's the touch of skin that has unfocused eyes turning wildly in his general direction. He has to clamp down hard on his own tentative worry, afraid Aziraphale will feel that too, and carefully reaches up to stroke sweaty locks. He lets his Effort evanish away to take the edge off, realising he needs lucidity right now.

The dark, selfish voice in him rages, but he's not actually bothered by it at all, and kisses Aziraphale's cheek, "Come back, Angel."

Aziraphale's still panting heavily, still writhing under him, but his grip has begun to loosen, and Crowley gently strokes the arm that's still death-gripped to his back, "Come back to me. Aziraphale. I'm here. Look at me."

He’s still wide-eyed, gaze edging on manic, but Aziraphale is looking up to regard Crowley earnestly. A soft, "Crowley" falls from his kiss swollen lips: part question, part pure rapture.

Crowley hasn’t stopped touching in turn, and smiles warmly before sitting up, pulling Aziraphale with him this time instead of making the angel chase after him. Aziraphale still has one hand clutching the shirt at his back as Crowley kisses his cheek fondly. He lets the gesture linger, just a solid pressure, as he runs a heavy hand down Aziraphale’s back and shoulder blade, their legs and knees jumbled and awkward on the couch under them. 

Crowley's chain has been lost around back, metal cool against the base of his throat as he twists back to let the couch support them both. Aziraphale still has one arm behind Crowley, gently trapped, and while he’s still reverberating under the intensity of their combined emotions, he’s alert enough that he’s helping get his limbs in order, shuffling in Crowley’s embrace so he’s comfortably straddling his demonic counterpart, sock clad toes tucked around and under Crowley’s knees 

They rest their foreheads together, a moment of mutual basking, before Aziraphale is kissing him again; Crowley settles into a nebula of _warmth_ and _contentment_ , letting Aziraphale push him into the comfortable back-rest of the couch. Aziraphale alternates from heavy, languid kisses to bold, frantic nips along Crowley’s jaw, working his way down a trail Crowley himself had been blazing just moments ago, his shaking limbs struggling to keep him upright with his grip nearly bruising. 

Crowley lets his fingers run the length of seam at the back of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, doing nothing to soothe the minute shuddering of the angel in his lap, instead pressing little patterns where soft blue shirt has been tucked into the waist of tan slacks. 

Aziraphale’s nosing at where Crowley’s shirt meets chest, breathing heavy, indulging himself at the expense of skin left where he’s pressed himself close, Crowley's scarf jumbled up under his cheek.

As he teases the fabric loose, Crowley lets his heart flood with _how much_ he loves Aziraphale, holding him close as he smothers his angel in zealous devotion. 

Aziraphale's vibrating against him, trapped in a losing struggle to control his breathing, and fluttering against him like a hummingbird. 

“Aziraphale?” When he turns and looks up at his name, Crowley leans forward, balancing Aziraphale with the hand at the small of the angel’s back, warm where it’s slid up under the shirt, and kisses him softly.

"I love you." 

Quaking, quavering, quivering; Aziraphale shudders hard into his lips, entire body convulsing as he comes undone so hard his wings burst out behind him.

Neither can breathe for a quiet long moment, Crowley can feel Aziraphale's grace, _his love_ , leaking off him as an impossibly warm and solid embrace; weighed down by the firmness of Aziraphale’s wings, and he just holds tight, each stuck in a feedback loop from the other until he finally slumps bonelessly back into the cushions, Aziraphale melting into him down like a slow heated syrup.

The angel settles on him, heavy but comforting, one hand still fisting in the shirt at his back, a warm weight at the juncture of Crowley’s still tucked away wings. Aziraphale tucks his head under Crowley's chin, ear pressed against Crowley's heart, before bringing up his other hand, with fingers still entwined, to his lips. He kisses each finger as he separates their hands, but he doesn't let go, instead holding Crowley's hand close, tucking them between their bodies as his wings curl in tighter around them both, held like a shield.

Crowley lets them just _be_ for a long eternity, one hand in Aziraphale’s tender embrace, the other running lazy patterns in the narrow space between back and wing, before he croons down at his paramour; part tease, part honest inquiry, “Too fast, Angel?”

“Tickety-boo.” Aziraphale chuckles from where he’s buried under their impromptu, heavily-feathered blanket. His breath is warm against the slight exposure of Crowley’s chest, before he shuffles to look up somberly, “Thank you for waiting so I could catch up. I’m just so sorry it took me so long.”

Shaking his head softly, Crowley tightens his fingers in a reassuring manner. “Aziraphale, I will wait until the sun burns out, and I will still never regret a moment.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Hikaru9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru9) and Miss Mary for being wonderful beta readers, and for encouraging me to actually finish something and clean it up to share. Also, [Wargoddess9](https://wargoddess9.tumblr.com/), my wonderful wife, for the beautiful art halfway through. there is also a more [ nsfw version of that drawing on her tumblr](https://wargoddess9.tumblr.com/post/186533290256/nothing-like-undressing-your-personal-angel-inch)


End file.
